Masking Amaya Frazer

{2} You Found Me

A scowl pulled the corners of my lips in a constant frown as my eyebrows slightly narrowed. The aroma of art supplies assaulted my senses as I entered the classroom, souring my already angry mood.

I was an amateur artist at best, meaning the doodles in the margins of my notebooks were the extent to my abilities. With no other classes available, I had no choice but to take Language of Art at seven o'clock at night.

Despite not knowing a single person in the room, never mind the entire campus of Clark Weller University, no one dared to sit at my table. I couldn't say if it was due to the disdainful expression on my almost twenty-year-old face, the dark clothing I wore, or the lack of makeup I refused to wear. This was who I truly was; not the girl from the club the previous night.

Nevertheless, I folded my arms across the wooden table marked by paint splatter and dried clay, and placed my head atop them, closing my eyes.

The stool across from mine screeched across the ground as another body occupied my table. Opening one eye, I was shocked to find a man sitting across from me. His navy blue jacket matched his eyes better than they matched the lime green sweater underneath, but who was I to judge fashion?

Lifting my head, I hitched an eyebrow and pursed my lips. I tucked my hair behind an ear as we engaged in a stare down. Faint stubble dotted along his jawline and his black hair was a ruffled mess as if he had just woken up, but his eyes pierced mine without a sign of wavering.

Twirling a pencil around my fingers, I asked, "Is there a reason you're sitting here?"

"Is there a reason you're being such a bit-"

"This is Language of Art, section six. You have three weeks from today to drop the class," Professor Whitmore interrupted at the front of the class. "There are only two grades in this class; attendance and the final project for the showcase. Your partners for the entire semester are sitting next to you."

Several people cheered with their friends, others introduced themselves with kind smiles, and I ignored the single person at my table who would inevitably be my partner.

Professor Whitmore was a young woman in her late twenties, early thirties. Her blonde hair was pulled into a neat pony tail, her winged mascara was impeccable, bright red lipstick adorned her plump lips, and her light brown eyes stared through a pair of glasses. She wore a dress with flowers decorated across the fabric and a pair of flats.

To say we were nothing alike was an understatement. My go-to outfit was a pair of jeans, a black hoodie, and high-top Vans. I didn't wear makeup either. Yes, despite being nineteen, I still had a bit of acne that probably should have been covered up with some makeup, but I learned long ago to stop caring what others thought of me.

To some extent, I did care what others thought since I desperately tried to hide the fact that not only did I deal with anxiety and depression, but I'd contemplated suicide numerous times in my life. If I wasn't such a coward, I would have-

The man across from me jutted out a stiff hand, cutting off my thoughts.

I shot a look at the professor, wondering what she had been droning on about. I couldn't care less about this class, but I did need to get a good grade to guarantee my GPA would be high enough to sustain the scholarships I'd received.

Placing my hand in his large, calloused one, we shook hands.

"Milo Black," he introduced. "Sophomore."

"Amaya Frazer. Freshman."

"Share a little about yourselves; where are you from? What are you majoring in? Interests? Hobbies? This will spark some ideas for your project," Professor Whitmore said, walking with graceful strides as she visited each pair.